


Into the Sun

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, First Time, Kid Fic, M/M, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hastings and Poirot find a baby in a basket on their doorstep, which causes several personal problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Series: Not related to my other stories.
> 
> Note: I am not a kid person at all, and have almost no experience with babies. If I get something wrong, please let me know.
> 
> Note 2: See endnote for inspiration.
> 
> Extras: Lapin_petite has created [a lovely piece of fanart](http://poirot-fans.livejournal.com/56903.html) inspired by this story. Thank you so much!

Poirot and I were returning from lunch when we made the discovery. In front of the door to our flat was a basket. I knelt down to inspect it, and was shocked to find an infant asleep inside of it.

"Poirot, it's a baby," I said, looking up at him.

" _Comment_?" Poirot said in puzzlement. He bent to look closer, and I noticed with interest the similar coloring in both the infant and Poirot.

I was about to inspect the basket more closely when a couple passed us, their quizzical looks quite understandable. I picked up the basket, and we entered the flat. I placed the basket on the settee, and sat next to it. By this time the child had woken, and was looking at me with such dark eyes that I believe I felt a kinship with him at that very moment.

I smiled as the thought occurred, and I said perhaps unwisely, "You share the same eyes, Poirot. Is there someone you haven't told me about?"

Poirot's eyes narrowed, and he said a bit primly, "I would never indulge myself in such a fashion with a lady, Hastings."

I shrugged, and began to search through the basket. "Is there a letter?" Poirot asked.

"Yes," I said. The letter had been tucked away in the side of the basket, and I found it without disturbing the child too much. My name was prominent on the envelope, and I felt a sense of foreboding as I opened it.

It was a simple letter: Senora Fosca had died, leaving behind the baby boy. Since her family did not want the bastard child, they sent him to his father in England, namely, me.

I felt light-headed as I finished the letter, and rested it in my lap. "The boy is mine," I said, folding the letter and putting it into my pocket.

Poirot's eyebrows rose at my words, and he said, "You are certain?"

"The possibility was not out of the question," I said reluctantly, trying not to blush. I turned my attention to the child, who was gurgling softly, and lifted him from the basket. His eyes were much darker than hers; they reminded me of Poirot's eyes. Some of the boy's facial features resembled mine, but his coloring was dark and foreign.

I looked back over at Poirot, and could see that he was practically radiating curiosity. I continued, "While in Buenos Aires I struck up a friendship with a widow. The letter says that she is dead." At the silence, I added, "I did not know about the child, Poirot. If I had known, I would not have left her."

I looked away, sensing Poirot's deep disapproval. The boy looked up at me, his eyes intent and searching. I smiled, and he smiled back.

"What is your name?" I asked him, knowing full well that he could not answer back.

Poirot wordlessly asked for permission to see the letter, and I reluctantly took it from my pocket and handed it to him. After reading the letter, Poirot then looked through the basket. There was a bundle of neatly folded clothes, a bottle and some dry food, and nothing else.

"What do you intend to do?" Poirot asked.

"Well, I'll have to think of a name for him first – mustn't take that sort of thing lightly – and then…" I stopped, having little idea what I should do next. "What do babies need?"

"You intend to keep this child?" Poirot asked, and I wondered at his surprise.

"Of course," I said, unaware at the time that I was holding the child closer. "He is my child, Poirot. I will not abandon him."

"People will wonder," Poirot said.

I dreaded what others would say, but I could not let my fear overcome my duty. "I know," I said with a helpless shrug.

After an uncomfortable silence, Poirot said, "We shall consult Ms. Lemon." At my curious glance, he said, "About the items needed for an infant."

 

Ms. Lemon's reaction upon meeting the child was not what I expected. Except for a fleeting glance of surprise, she acted as if requests for assistance from a man with an illegitimate child happened every day. Before the afternoon was over I had in my possession all the accoutrements that a baby would need, including a crib, a pram, bottles, diapers, pins, powder, bathing supplies, clothes, and toys. It became apparent very quickly that it would be crowded in our flat once the baby grew. He could not stay in my bedroom forever.

I ignored this, however, because the thought of leaving Poirot was both unpleasant and impractical. I had enough money from my investments and my ranch with which I could indulge in a few luxuries, but certainly not to keep both the baby and myself in a suitable apartment, much less send him to school and university.

"What should we name him, Poirot?" I called to him from my place on the sofa. Poirot was in the kitchen; he did not trust me to prepare the baby's food in a palatable way.

"That is your decision, _mon ami_."

"I know, but I haven't the slightest idea."

"Perhaps you could name him after your father?" Poirot called back.

Fortunately Poirot was not present to see the face I made. I looked over at the book I had been reading: _Famous British Heroes_. The chapter I had just completed was about T.E. Lawrence.

"What about Thomas Edward?" I said as Poirot entered with the bottle.

"Your father's name?"

"No," I replied firmly. I nodded to the book, and said, "It seems as stout a British name as any."

Poirot nodded, and said, " _Thomas Édouard_ suits him nicely."

I smiled at Poirot, and held out my hand for the bottle. The woman at the shop had shown me how best to hold the baby and feed him; she had been remarkably kind, but when I mentioned this to Ms. Lemon, she replied that a gentleman with a baby was often a target for unmarried ladies.

Ms. Lemon, Poirot, and I decided to tell those who asked that Thomas was the son of a distant relation of mine who died and left the child to me. It was a less socially awkward story than that I had fathered the child myself. While many would not believe my story, it would give them socially acceptable permission to ponder it no further.

We watched Thomas eat, the silence marred only by the crackling of the fire. When Thomas was almost finished, Poirot said softly, "He is a beautiful boy, Hastings."

"He is," I replied. "That's his mother you see. She was beautiful."

"But," Poirot said, "the line of the jaw and the kindness in his _beaux yeux_ , that is you, Hastings."

I glanced away, finding the compliments too affecting. "But his beauty comes from his dark eyes and high cheekbones. He is quite striking." Of course, I could say the same of Poirot's features, although I doubt he would welcome my admiration.

Poirot looked about to say something, and then thought better of it. He stroked Thomas' dark hair, and said, "We will give to him the best of everything."

I was relieved that Poirot was intent upon assisting me. I knew that he was my friend, but this seemed above and beyond the duties of friendship.

 

The next afternoon Japp entered the room, and said, "Carson's done a runner, Poirot." He then turned to me, looked twice at Thomas, and said, "What's that?"

"This is Thomas Edward Hastings," I replied, turning a bit so that Japp could see the baby's face.

Japp gave me a suspicious look, and said, "Oh yes?"

I nodded, and said, "A distant relation of mine died, and left Thomas to me."

Japp glanced at Poirot, whose expression gave away nothing more than mild interest. "Oh," Japp said, obviously not believing my explanation. His expression softened, however, as he looked at the baby; he bent down, and I was treated to Inspector Japp's baby talk.

I glanced at Poirot, and we shared a moment of great amusement. Japp noticed, and cleared his throat, standing up. "We think that Carson is at his girlfriend's apartment. If you're right about him being the embezzler, then we should act quickly. I've got men posted around the building."

Poirot nodded, and we both stood up. When I reached for my hat, Japp said to me, "Where do you think you're going?"

I was momentarily surprised by his question, and answered, "With you, of course."

"You can't take a baby to a police raid," Japp said. "It'll be dangerous."

"I can't leave him here alone," I replied.

"Can't you have Ms. Lemon watch him?" Japp asked.

"She's working right now," I replied, wondering what sort of reaction I would get if I were to ask.

"You can't bring him, captain," Japp said firmly.

I looked to Poirot, and he said, "Inspector Japp is correct, _mon ami_. We would not want M. Thomas to be hurt."

"Well, yes," I said, "but-"

Japp shook his head, and said, "We have to hurry."

"I shall tell you all that happens upon my return," Poirot said, patting Thomas on the head, and then leaving with Japp.

I stood in the middle of the room with Thomas, stunned by my sudden limitation. Until this moment, perhaps foolishly, I had not considered the practicalities of having a baby.

Ms. Lemon entered the room with some papers. "Mr. Poirot has gone?" Ms. Lemon asked.

"Yes," I said. "He left me here with Thomas."

"Well you can't expect to take a baby on an investigation, captain," Ms. Lemon said.

I nodded, unable to help my sigh of disappointment. Ms. Lemon's expression somehow managed to convey her sympathy as well as her negative impression of my reasoning skills.

 

I waited for Poirot to return with as much patience as I could muster. As I played with Thomas, I wondered if Poirot and Japp had captured Carson yet. While I prepared Thomas' food – following Poirot's written instructions to the letter – I began to fear that perhaps something terrible had happened to Poirot. What if he needed me to fulfill a role in his plan, and having me nowhere close, was forced to use a substandard participant? What if Carson had tried to escape and rather than grapple with me, he grappled with Poirot?

It was late in the evening, and Ms. Lemon had gone home for the day. After feeding Thomas and rocking him to sleep, I was just about to call her and beg her to watch Thomas, when I heard the key in the door. For a brief moment I pictured Japp fighting with the lock while holding an injured Poirot in his arms, but then reason took hold once more.

Poirot entered, and said, "Good evening."

"What took you so long?" I asked, perhaps a bit rudely. I should have greeted him first before asking.

Poirot glanced at the clock as he put his walking stick and gloves away. "I was gone for no more than three hours, Hastings."

I glanced at the clock, too, and said, "It seemed like longer. I was worried, Poirot." At Poirot's confused look, I continued, "I thought maybe something had gone wrong."

"Hastings," Poirot said as he smoothed down his waistcoat, "you have the most vivid imagination."

"I had to rely on my imagination, Poirot. I had no idea what was happening, and Carson is a dangerous criminal."

"There was no need for you to worry so," Poirot replied. "I have solved many dangerous cases during your various absences, and I have done so without loss of life or limb. For you now is the task of taking care of _le jeune Thomas_."

"Well, yes, but must I stay behind all of the time? I shall miss assisting you on your cases."

"We shall soon hire the nanny," Poirot replied, "but until that time you must take responsibility for your child."

"I was not suggesting otherwise," I replied sharply. "I merely wish to continue as your assistant."

"Then perhaps you should have considered your actions more carefully, _mon ami_ ," Poirot replied just as harshly. "If you had wished to continue the blithe bachelorhood, you should have reined in your dalliances."

I was shocked by his words. That he brought up such a subject troubled me. "I do not make a habit of seducing women, Poirot, and to suggest such a thing-"

Poirot interrupted me. "I do not suggest it, Hastings. I know the facts! The proof is your admission of the affair and the presence of Monsieur Thomas."

"Once does not indicate a habit," I replied, looking away from him in embarrassment. I felt my cheeks grow warm from my blush. "If I had know that this outcome was possible, I would never have-" I waved my hand, unable to say anything more specific.

"How could the outcome not have been possible?" Poirot said. "She was a woman, yes?"

"Well, yes, but she was not young. She insisted that she could not become pregnant due to her age. I believed her."

"You were eager to believe," Poirot said, the accusation clear.

"Y-yes. She was beautiful, exotic…" I stopped speaking when I saw the anger flair to life in his eyes.

"Of course, Hastings," Poirot said with complete ruthlessness. "That is the way of the English, yes? To play overseas but then to leave all behind and return to the comfort of your land."

"That is absurd!" I cried, turning to face him fully. "You know nothing of the circumstances. If you think I took advantage of Senora Fosca, then this proves that you know me not at all, and you certainly didn't know the lady."

Of course I was not about to reveal my humiliation to him willingly. "If you think that I am making a mistake in keeping this child, Poirot, then you had better say so now. He is my son, and I love him dearly."

Poirot looked troubled, but I was not sure what was on his mind. "No, _mon ami_ , I would never consign a child to an orphanage, but I also do not wish the child to live without the basic necessities. You love him – I can see that this is so – but what will you do with him? This apartment is too small for the three of us. How will you pay for a larger apartment? How will you pay for his schooling or the doctor if, may the _bon Dieu_ forbid it, something should happen to him?"

"I don't know!" I cried, feeling more helpless now than since I was discharged from the army. "I have not had the time to consider it."

"Then when will you take the time?" Poirot said. "You had the long hours sitting here with the baby to keep you company. Did you not consider the future then?"

"No, I was worried about you," I replied.

" _Excusez-moi, mon ami_ , but that is a foolish worry," Poirot said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "Poirot can take care of himself."

"And I cannot? This that what you are implying?" His silence angered me, and I said, "Absolute piffle!"

I turned on my heel, and left him in the sitting room, seething with helpless anger. I could not leave the flat without taking Thomas, and so I stormed into my bedroom and locked the door. I sat down on the chair next to Thomas' crib; he was sleeping peacefully, although I knew that he would rouse me at 3 am. I brushed my fingers against his cheek, watching him.

Of course I was ashamed of myself for leaving the lady in the family way; it was an outcome that I should have anticipated, but as she was of rapidly gaining middle age and did not seem concerned in the slightest, I assumed that there was little to worry about. I also felt guilty because I suspected that her pregnancy contributed to her death. Deep in my brain I wondered if Poirot was right and her foreign nature was what gave me release from care. I did not think so; certainly I would not have treated Poirot in such a way. Then again, I was very much in love with Poirot, while with Senora Fosca I was not in love at all.

Senora Fosca had treated me with contempt the first few times we met. "A boring Englishman," she had called me. Perhaps, but I was also an excellent lover. She would harass me out in the open, and I would apply that frustrated energy in the bedroom. By the time I left, she still disliked me, but she said that she would miss my nocturnal companionship. I am ashamed to say that I did not miss her; I missed Poirot and England.

Of course I did not wish to tell Poirot the sordid tale; he would possibly be more understanding of the passion due to his Latin nature, but he always disapproved of my reactionary impulses – my desire to act now and reflect later.

Thomas was awake, and looking at me with a serious expression – almost like Poirot's when he was thinking about whether a suspect was telling the truth. "You remind me so much of him," I murmured softly. "I cannot regret having you."

I let him seize one of my fingers, his little hand unable to grasp it completed. He went back to sleep, and I stayed that way for some time. I wanted the best for my boy; I just had to figure out how to accomplish it.

 

The next morning I waited to emerge from my bedroom until after Ms. Lemon had arrived so that there would be no immediate continuation of our conversation. Poirot looked pointedly at me as I emerged with Thomas, and I felt ashamed at my cowardice but equally unwilling to continue our argument.

Thomas and I went to Hyde Park that afternoon, and watched the lads with their fathers sail ships on the lake. Everywhere there seemed to be families picnicking or young lovers cooing. I felt quite alone, despite Thomas' presence.

I contemplated the fight of the previous night. I realized that I would have to address at least some of Poirot's concerns. He deserved to know what had happened, and I wanted to restore some of my good name.

 

I steadied myself with a whiskey, and once Ms. Lemon left for the evening, I sat by Poirot's desk and waited for his attention. When I had it, I said softly so that Thomas would not overhear, "Senora Fosca was a widow who lived in Buenos Aires. She was only a few years younger than I. She had no need for delicate social mores because she was a wealthy woman with a dead husband."

Poirot nodded, and I had to look away from his dark, intrusive eyes. "We met at a party, and what with one thing… er… and another-" I waved my hand a bit to indicate what he already knew had happened. "She assured me that she could no longer have children and that she had no interest in marrying."

"Did you love her, _mon ami_?" Poirot asked.

I considered his question. "No," I replied. "I did not, and she did not love me either." She had been quite clear on that matter.

"It was the convenience," Poirot said, and I could not confirm from his tone whether or not he disapproved.

"Yes," I answered, blushing a bit. "She was a passionate woman. I knew when I departed that she had already acquired another lover."

Even if I had loved her and she me, I could not have kept someone whose fires burned so hot. It made me wonder about Poirot's exotic nature, and I felt sure that he would find me as uninteresting as Senora Fosca had. I could not hope to keep such a lover in my staid arms.

I looked Poirot in the eyes, wanting him to see my earnestness. "Despite my lack of love, Poirot, I respected her a great deal, and I would not have abandoned her had I known she was carrying my child. I would have insisted that we marry; I would not have allowed her to endure a pregnancy alone."

"I know, Hastings, but would she have agreed? I doubt it very much, if she was of such a strong will as you say." Poirot sighed, and I was relieved to see his disposition more agreeable toward me.

I shrugged. "I could not have forced her, but I would have done anything to convince her."

Poirot gazed at me thoughtfully for several moments, and then said, "Thank you, my friend, for telling me this. My apologies for thinking the worst of you. I should have known better than to think even for one moment that my honorable friend would abandon a lady in such a fashion."

I nodded, and with a slight smile I said, "Well, you could only surmise facts from the evidence placed before you."

Poirot's lips twitched, and he said, "You are correct."

 

An uneasy peace reigned once more in our flat; nevertheless, his comments about my inability to care for myself rankled. Finally, I decided that I should look for a position. Before the war I had worked at Lloyd's, but after the war I travelled and then took up investing as a way to obtain a living. It allowed me the ability to go where I chose, and in my association with Poirot, I needed that pliancy. My flirting with a job ended when I left the office and did not return for a week. However, I can admit here that I was never particularly good at investments; then again, I was never a particularly good banker. My superiors knew not to put me in certain positions of power. I was always too forgiving of young ladies (and the odd gentleman) who would cry in my office due to an overdraft or inability to pay on a loan.

I perused the paper, my eyes now on the occupational advertisements rather than the agony columns. Poirot was out with a client, and Thomas was sleeping. I stepped into Ms. Lemon's office, and found her reading correspondence. She looked up as I entered, her gaze inquiring.

I did not wish to admit that I was lonely because Poirot was off doing something exciting and Thomas was asleep or that I was out of sorts. Instead, I said, "Have you looked at these adverts?"

"Which ones?" she asked.

"The job advertisements. Some of them sound jolly interesting." In fact, they all looked rather dull. "Listen to this one: 'Young lady wishes post: typing, accounts, et cetera; adaptable. – Write Box E.1208, The Times, E.C.4.' I could always put in an advertisement, and see who wishes to hire me."

Ms. Lemon's brows furrowed slightly, and she said, "You are looking for a situation?"

"Yes," I said. "I think we all know that I cannot raise a child on my military pension and whatever interest I receive on my investments. I also cannot continue to rely on Poirot's generosity."

"But you would hate a job," Ms. Lemon said.

I tended to agree with her, but I replied as cheerily as I could, "It won't be all bad. I'll be able to send Thomas to a very good school, if I work hard enough. I want him to have every advantage."

"What will you do with him while you are at work?" Ms. Lemon asked.

"I'll have to hire a nanny," I answered. Poirot had already mentioned something about a nanny, but we were crowded in this flat even before Thomas arrived, and a nanny would afford us still less privacy.

"Would it not be more beneficial for you to continue to live with M. Poirot?" Ms. Lemon asked. "Rents are quite high in London, and it would be cheaper to share the price of rent. I agree that you should hire a nanny, but surely you don't want the child to be without the company of others." She narrowed her eyes a bit, and asked, "Unless you intend to marry."

The thought had not occurred to me, and I immediately shied away from it. "I have no intention of marrying at present," I said. I had enough experience to know that no woman could measure up to Poirot.

Ms. Lemon looked at me intently, and then said, "What about M. Poirot? He adores the boy. You would be depriving him as well."

I smiled as I remembered how carefully and with surety Poirot took care of Thomas. "Yes, perhaps you are right," I replied with a sigh. "I shall at least put out a notice and see who responds."

Ms. Lemon nodded, but whatever she was about to say next was interrupted by soft noise in the living room. "Thomas is awake," I said, folding up the paper.

 

Searching for a job was a damn sight harder than I remembered. I put an ad in the paper, and received inquiries from all manner of persons. One went so far as to inquire after certain… other services. When I read my ad aloud to Poirot, he laughed. It said:

"Unmarried, 48 year-old gentleman seeks employment: able to do most anything and in possession of own car."

"You were most vague, _mon ami_ , as to the occupation which you desired," Poirot said, only a slight smirk on his lips.

"Well, I wasn't sure what sort of job I wanted," I replied rather primly.

I became rather despondent after this latest failure. At night Poirot's criticisms broke up my sleep, and I could not stop myself from wondering if he was correct in this matter. I am generally in possession of a healthy dose of self-belief, but this had been worn down by my repeated failures.

Tension settled in the household. Every time Poirot left on some investigation, I felt my resentment build. Poirot had telephoned to an agency for some nannies to interview, but for whatever reason there was a lack of suitable persons about. The ones that did answer Poirot sent away as being unsatisfactory.

 

Poirot and I were at dinner when the solution to my problems came to me. I was listening with half-an-ear to the two women gossiping behind me. Poirot was consulting the wine menu, and so his entire attention was taken. I heard a gasp behind me, and being unoccupied with nothing more than my food, I began to listen more closely.

"She did?"

"Yes, she did. She knew she couldn't keep the baby, so she gave it to her sister."

"But her sister's not much different from her."

"No, but her sister's husband has blond hair. The baby'll look just like him, and no one will ask."

"She's just going to leave him?"

"Well, adopt him out. I know her plan was to just leave him, if her sister didn't approve. They'd have to take the child then."

I stopped chewing as I became more involved in their conversation, and only the weight of Poirot's eyes on my face brought me back to our dinner. I smiled at him, and resumed chewing in the hopes that he had not noticed my distraction.

I thought about my plan, and decided it would do. I had not enough money to take care of a child or an apartment of our own. I could not even afford to send the lad to a good school. I could not continue to count of Poirot's generosity; that would be asking too much. Poirot was also more intelligent than I, and Thomas would not lack in education or sound advice.

My worry was that Poirot would refuse the plan, and I decided against asking him to adopt Thomas. Instead, I would leave Thomas in his hands along with a letter of explanation. What gave me pause, however, was twofold. My plan meant that I would not see Poirot again for a very long time, if ever, and two, it would involve abandoning my child, an act which I swore I would never do.

Poirot gazed at me in worry; I thought perhaps that he might be upset at my distraction, but instead he looked concerned.

"You have the look of devastation about you, _mon ami_ ," he said after we had returned home that evening.

"Do I?" I asked, unable to completely hide my nervousness.

" _Mais oui_ ," Poirot said. He rested a hand on my arm, which told me that he was serious in his inquiry. Normally he restrained himself where I was concerned because he knew that I tended to shy away from his sometimes exuberant mannerisms.

"It's probably just tiredness you see, old thing," I replied, feeling suddenly fragile, as if I were a thin pane of glass about to shatter into a thousand pieces. "Thomas is only just sleeping through the night."

"Then perhaps you should retire early tonight," Poirot said, squeezing my arm gently.

"Yes," I replied. "Yes, perhaps you are right."

 

I finally made the decision while I watched Poirot play with Thomas. He did not know that I was watching as I was still in the hallway. I could see how much Poirot loved Thomas, and I felt sure that Poirot would give him everything that I could not give.

Late in the evening I wrote the letter, which was the most challenging I had ever written. In it I detailed my plan and my reasons, and I apologized for leaving. I outlined with as much cold logic as I could manage the reasons why Poirot would be a better father, and I begged him to take care of Thomas and not to send him away. I asked that he not think poorly of me; I said that I trusted him greatly – more so than I trusted myself. What I wanted to say the most – that I loved him – I eventually wrote in at the end, using a simple phrase that he could interpret in several ways. "Goodbye, Poirot. I love you."

I hid the letter among my books, and spent the remainder of the night in fitful sleep. Over breakfast Poirot gave me several searching looks, and I wondered if I were giving myself away. I took Thomas out for a nice long walk through Hyde Park, and spent some quiet time together feeding the birds. I explained to Thomas what I was about to do, the reasons why, and how much I loved him. I hoped that he would remember my words at least subconsciously.

I felt quite maudlin by the time we returned home. Thomas was fussy, and as my nerves were on edge, I asked Poirot to calm him down.

"Thomas can sense your unease, my friend," Poirot said, cradling Thomas close to his chest. His question remained unasked, and so I simply nodded.

"I should freshen up before dinner," I said, excusing myself.

Looking in the mirror proved how forcefully I had been projecting my anxiety, and I practiced a calm expression. The signs of sleeplessness I could do nothing to hide.

I did my best to engage with Poirot about his latest case, reminding myself that this would no doubt be the last time I would be able to do so and that I should therefore make the most of it. After dinner he read a book by some philosopher or other while I contented myself by playing with Thomas. He especially enjoyed raspberries to the hands and feet; every so often I would look at Poirot and find him smiling at us.

The evening ended with Thomas asleep in my arms. I was humming a lullaby to him, something I half-remembered from my own days as a babe, and when I looked over at Poirot, he had a meditative expression on his face.

"To bed, Poirot?" I said, wishing that I meant to a mutual bed.

Poirot nodded, but when we rose, he came to stand before me. I was about to hand Thomas to him so that he could say good night properly, but Poirot raised his hand to stop me. With Thomas still in my arms, Poirot stroked his hair tenderly and then pressed a light kiss to his forehead. His movements brought us quite close together, and I took a breath of his cologne.

Poirot looked up at me, our bodies still close. I wondered at his intent expression; surely he had no idea what I was planning. Perhaps he knew that I was out of sorts, but he could not have guessed why.

"Sleep well, _mon ami_ ," Poirot said.

"And you as well, old thing," I replied, unable to look away. Our gazes held for several more seconds before he turned away to his bedroom and I retreated into mine.

I waited until the movement in his bedroom stopped, and then I began my own preparations. I had earlier packed a suitcase while Poirot was away on an errand, and then hid it under my bed. I would not need much beyond my suitcase and my golf clubs. I removed the letter from its hiding place, and then sat down to read. I wanted to make absolutely certain that Poirot would be asleep before I left.

I remained calm until the clock struck the hour. I put away my book, and then went out into the sitting room. My hands began to shake as the finality of my actions dawned. Now I understood why others had to act for the young mother without a husband; she would not have been able to give up the baby on her own. It was a terrible thing I was about to do of my own volition.

I centered the letter on Poirot's desk, and straightened it as best I could. I wished that I could see him one last time – just to see, if not to say goodbye – but such an action would be folly. I then put my suitcase and my golf clubs in the foyer, readied for quick departure. The only thing left was to say goodbye to Thomas.

Thomas was still asleep when I picked him up. His dark eyes were closed, but I already knew how beautiful they were. He was such a handsome little boy, and for a moment I imagined that he was Poirot's child and not mine. However, that made it even more of a challenge to put him down.

"I shall miss you," I whispered, "but this is for the best. You'll be happier with him. I know it, for I was, too."

I had been determined to hold back my tears, but they rose at my words. Thomas murmured in his sleep, and I shushed him gently.

"It will be all right," I whispered. "Everything will work itself out."

I brushed a few tears from my face, but my composure was fast coming apart. I sat down heavily on the bed, panting softly like some sort of wounded animal.

"I don't know if I can do this," I whispered, cuddling Thomas close and kissing the crown of his head. "Oh god," I whispered.

I am not sure how much time passed, but when the sky began to grow orange, I knew that I had lost my window of opportunity as well as my courage. I returned my suitcase and golf clubs to their respective places, and at the last minute remembered the letter I had put on Poirot's desk. I shoved it into its hiding place, and then undressed for what little sleep I could get.

 

Both Poirot and I were quiet at breakfast. Thomas gurgled happily in his highchair; I fed him in an absent-minded fashion, and after several missed spoonfuls, Poirot waved me away and took over Thomas' breakfasting.

I went out, having no plan in mind, but aware that I had to determine what avenue I would take to remove this problem. I certainly did not wish to leave Thomas behind, but I knew that not only would Poirot be an excellent father but also I had little money to care for a child. If only I had something I could do; I knew that I would not earn as much as Poirot, but if I had something of which I could be proud – something that I could take to Poirot and show him that I was adequate to the task at hand.

At my club, I met my old friend, Mick. Michael was his proper name, but toward the end of the war we met some American soldiers during shore leave and they dubbed him Mick. We were quite pleased with the name, and Mick grudgingly grew used to it.

"You look terrible," he said, staring at me.

"I feel terrible," I replied, sitting down at the table next to him.

We spent several moments contemplating the menus. Once we had finished ordering, he turned to me, and said, "What's wrong? Is the baby keeping you awake?"

"No," I replied. "Money concerns."

Mick nodded, and said, "Not enough, eh? You've always been a bit short in the pockets. I thought that Belgian friend of yours was going to help you."

"He said that he would, but I don't want to rely on him completely. I should be able to pay my half of everything."

"Job?" Mick said.

I rolled my eyes, and said, "I've tried that. I went back to my old bank, and was told absolutely not. I took out an advertisement, and got all manner of unusual persons."

Mick laughed, and I huffed with hearty resentment. Once he calmed down, he said, "Poor Arthur, you are in a mess."

He turned the subject then to less stressful events, including his trip to South Africa, and we exchanged a pleasant couple of hours. It was not until the waiter delivered our bill that he came back to the subject of work.

"What about that writing of yours?" he said.

"My writing?"

"Yes, didn't you write a few stories about that detective of yours? They were well received, weren't they?"

"Yes, but Poirot disliked them. He said that they were overly romantic adventure stories."

"So he made you stop writing them?" Mick asked.

I hesitated, wondering why I had stopped, and said slowly, "No… no, he didn't. I stopped because I did not wish to distress him. They are about him after all."

Mick clicked his tongue, and said, "Well, do it anyway. Everyone loves a good detective story, and you said that you had been asked to write more. If you're in demand, you can ask for a higher price even!"

I thought about it for a moment, and then said, "Yes, you are right. I could do. I would have to obtain permission from Poirot."

"Then ask, if you must." Mick said, and while I was distracted, he plucked the bill from my hands. "My treat, old man, and don't argue. Instead, buy a typewriter, and get started."

 

I returned home, a typewriter case in my hand. Poirot was nowhere around, and as Thomas and the pram were gone, I assumed that Poirot had taken Thomas with him. I settled myself at the dining room table, and began to write.

An hour later, Poirot and Thomas returned. I had papers scattered across the surface of the table, with notes scribbled, outlines planned, and a checklist of cases. Poirot seemed surprised to find me at the dining room table, and he was silent as he took in the mess.

"What is this, _mon ami_?" he said as he took Thomas out of the pram.

"I had lunch with a friend of mine, and he suggested that I continue writing as a way of earning a living- with your permission, of course."

Poirot wrinkled his nose a bit, but I was more interested by how carefully and surely he held Thomas in his arms. My attention returned to his expression when he said, "If that is what you wish, then I give you my permission."

I felt such a swell of relief that I nearly stood up and embraced him. Instead, I said, "Jolly good!"

 

Our lives changed within the next year. Poirot and I had developed an attachment to Whitehaven Mansions, and so we decided to move into a larger flat within the same building. Thomas grew, and began to walk. He knew as many French words as he did English, thanks to Poirot's influence. 

Tiring of the parade of unsatisfactory nannies and Poirot's indecisiveness, Ms. Lemon presented one of her own acquaintances as a suitable nanny. Poirot accepted her word – for we both trusted Ms. Lemon – and this nanny was hired. She was available daily and also for the occasional nighttime call, but as often as not I would take care of Thomas myself while Poirot went off without me. Due to my writing, demand for his services increased, and while I assisted him to the best of my ability, I was also busy with my writing and speaking engagements.

We were still finding items from the move in odd places, and I gave no more thought to the book in which I had placed my farewell letter. I had forgotten it entirely.

I was reading Thomas his bedtime story when I heard Poirot enter the flat. I continued, though, because Poirot knew where I would be. I smiled as Poirot came into Thomas' room, and Thomas reached out his arms and murmured, " _Père_ ".

Poirot bent down to kiss him on the forehead, and murmured, " _Mon jeune_ Thomas."

He waited while I finished the story. Thomas was soon asleep; I kissed his forehead as well, and then tucked him in further. I followed Poirot into the sitting room, and said, "How did it go?"

"Without the hitch," Poirot said, but it was clear that his mind was not on the investigation.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

"Perhaps once, _mon ami_ ," he replied. "I wonder, though, about now."

I stood closer to him at the fireplace. We had grown close in many ways, and for reasons I cannot articulate we had grown closer in physical proximity. Perhaps it was all the times Poirot drew next to me as I cradled Thomas and vice versa. Perhaps it was the emotional intimacy that came with raising a baby. Perhaps it was that I had come to accept completely my love for him.

Poirot gazed up at me, and said, "I found one of your books in my bookcase. It contained the letter you had written."

I opened my mouth, intending to question him further, when I realized to what letter he was referring. "Oh," I said, closing my mouth quickly.

"I had feared such an outcome, Hastings," Poirot said softly. "Why did you change your mind?"

I felt as though the question – although lightly put – was very important to Poirot and that my answer was of dire importance to him. I swallowed nervously, and then replied, "I could not put him down. I picked up Thomas, intending to say my goodbyes, and… I just couldn't.

"I still believe, Poirot, that you would be the better father – the better provider – but I loved him too much to give him up." I laughed softly, and added, "I suppose that makes me quite selfish."

Poirot's expression was full of tender emotion. "If only others were as selfish as you, Hastings. Love is more important than money. I apologize if my concerns made this fact appear otherwise. You love your son. I believe that you do most sincerely."

"I do," I said softly. "I love Thomas." And I love you, I thought to myself.

Poirot must have found what he wanted in my expression because he said, "I would have taken him as my own, Hastings, never fear… but I would have despised you for leaving."

I nodded at his words, feeling an echo of shame. I said, eyes lowered, "I know. That was the other reason why I could not leave."

I was surprised into looking up when I felt Poirot's fingers against my cheek. "It is true then," he murmured. "The salutation in your letter."

"Yes," I replied.

Poirot was silent for a few moments, and I wondered if I had misspoken. "I was consigned to the orphanage at a young age," he said softly. I was surprised by his words, but when I sought to speak, he shook his head slightly. "My mother… she died, and none of her relatives wanted her child. My father's identity is unknown to me."

I was not certain if he meant that he did not know or if no one had known. "It was horrible, wasn't it? The orphanage..."

"It was grey and always cold. I did not know warmth, even when I stepped out into the sun. The third time I ran away, they did not bother to search for me."

"Heavens," I murmured, picturing a young, starving Poirot roaming the countryside of Belgium.

"Fortunately I was arrested by a constable in Brussels."

"Arrested?" I cried, shocked at his words.

Poirot's lips twitched. He said, "I was not as good a criminal as I might be today. The chief of police at that time recognized my brilliance, and took me into his house. He educated me, raised me as his son, gave me another mother and two sisters."

His words drifted off, and I could see that he was lost in memories. I rested my hand against his upper arm, and said, "I am grateful that he assisted you."

"As I am, my friend."

We gazed at each other for a few moments, and then Poirot said softly, "Shall we play chess tonight as planned?"

"If that is what you wish," I replied.

"For now," he replied. Perhaps my expression showed my disappointment because he said more firmly, "For now, Hastings."

We played chess, although both of us were distracted by each other. When we retired for the evening, he pressed my hand between both of his, and then retreated to his own bedroom. I looked in on Thomas one more time, and then retired to my room.

I mulled over our conversation as I lay in bed. I could understand now Poirot's reaction to Thomas and my dalliance with Senora Fosca. He saw himself in the child and me as the absent father. I felt greatly shamed by my inability to piece together these clues which were now completely obvious.

I also wondered at Poirot's response to my declaration of love. He had not reacted in a disgusted or dismissive way. Perhaps he did not understand the nature of my affection for him. Did he think I loved him only as a brother or as a friend? Perhaps my perceived infidelity made me unsuitable in his eyes. No, that could not be the case. Why else would he have trusted me with knowledge of his orphaned status and humble beginnings?

I fell asleep wondering what a young Poirot would have looked like.

 

The next morning, I rose to find Thomas already awake and keeping Poirot company in the kitchen. Thomas waved his arms at me, and so I picked him up from his highchair.

"Papa!"

"Good morning, Thomas. Is _père_ preparing breakfast?"

" _Oui_ ," Thomas said with enthusiasm. He loved to eat almost as much as I did, and his range of palate was broader than Poirot's. I was very proud of my lad.

Poirot smiled at us, and then returned his attention to his pots. I settled Thomas back into his highchair, and then came to stand next to him. I steeled myself for my next actions, and then rested a hand on the small of Poirot's back. I pressed a swift kiss to his temple, and said, "Good morning, Poirot."

Poirot's eyes rounded, and I was amused by his surprised expression. "Good morning, Hastings," he replied, visibly gathering his wits.

"Smells delicious," I replied heartily.

" _Bon_ ," Poirot said with a nod of his head.

 

As Poirot seemed receptive, I continued to act in such a way as to prove my affection for him. While I was not normally a demonstrative person – at least in public – I found it much easier in private to lay a hand on his elbow or a kiss on his cheek. 

In my adventures I describe Poirot as someone who was quite demonstrative in the expression of his emotions, and he did not hesitate to respond in kind. It took some effort to grow used to his unreservedness, but I was an eager student. Nevertheless, we both held back, waiting for some indication.

One of the cases with which I was able to assist led us on a chase through Covent Garden. I was ahead with Inspector Japp not far behind and Poirot trailing at the back. I rounded the corner, intent upon our prey, and discovered the man had turned to face me, his gun pointed directly at my chest. Unable to stop, I instead sped up and knocked him down. During the struggle for the gun, he managed a solid blow to my head. Fortunately Japp had been behind me, and was able to grab him.

"Hastings!" Poirot cried, and came to my side where I had been knocked against the brick wall.

"I'm all right, Poirot," I replied, shaking my head a bit to clear it. When my sight restored itself, I could see that Japp had the suspect pinned to the ground and that Poirot looked furious. I did not realize why until we returned home. My head throbbed, and all I wanted was a drink and a pillow. 

Thankfully the delay and perhaps my pitiful appearance seemed to have cooled some of Poirot's anger. "You could have been killed," he said.

"But I wasn't," I replied.

"You charged through without thinking – like a dog after a rabbit!"

I sighed, my eyes closing for a moment. "Poirot, all I want to do is sleep."

I was aware that Poirot wanted to exchange words over the matter, but I was in no mood to do so. I rested my head on the back of the settee, intent upon relieving the throb of my head.

Poirot's fingers brushed against my temple, and I opened my eyes, surprised. Poirot's expression was earnest and sad as he said, "You must take care, Hastings. What would have happened to _le jeune_ Thomas, if you had been hurt?"

"You would have cared for him," I said softly, bringing his palm up to my lips.

Poirot sighed my name softly, evidence of his frustration. He sat down next to me, and murmured, "And I, _mon ami_?"

I blinked, letting his words settle into my brain. Praying that I had interpreted them correctly, I said softly, "Do you need me, Poirot?"

His head tilted almost imperceptibly. He leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to my lips. I brushed my fingers through his hair, and pulled him closer, thrilled that this moment had finally happened.

I pulled back, and murmured, "I would gladly take a thousand blows to the head if this is the result."

Poirot laughed. "Your senses have been addled, _mon cher_ Hastings."

I smiled at him, and said, "Perhaps."

I tilted my head slightly, and he resumed his kiss.

 

After that day our expressions of affection became more intimate. Whether my injury had frightened him or he tired of waiting, Poirot gave me permission to press for more. We would kiss with the growing desperation of two men who had tired of holding back their emotions. While Poirot was quite forceful in his day-to-day dealings, I was delighted to discover that he was quite content to let me lead in our lovemaking. Kissing Poirot to distraction became my most cherished indulgence, and watching his eyes refocus long after I had pulled away made me feel powerful.

As yet we had not fully made love. We each retreated to our respective bedrooms, and I wondered why Poirot was so reticent. I feared that he did not trust me, and while I was hurt by his lack of trust, I understood why.

 

"What shall we tell Thomas?" I asked one evening as we were hanging Christmas decorations in the sitting room. I was not very fond of Christmas, but Poirot loved the holiday and insisted that Thomas be taught to enjoy it. I reluctantly agreed to his wishes; however, I found more cheer in consuming Poirot's excellent wine as we put up the decorations and then stopping to kiss him at every available moment.

"About what, _mon ami_?" Poirot asked, laughing a bit as he pulled away. He had consumed a fair amount of wine himself, and was flushed a delightful, happy color.

"About us," I replied. I moved the ladder to another spot, and began to climb. Poirot very helpfully steadied my legs as I worked, his fingers gradually moving higher and higher up the back of my thigh. I wiggled a bit, ostensibly to gain better purchase of the mistletoe's anchoring wire, and Poirot – being the intelligent man that he was – took the hint and slid his fingers yet further up.

He squeezed gently, and said, "Do you refer to our living arrangements?"

"Partially, I suppose," I replied. "But I mean in general. It is not usual for a lad to have two fathers, and yet he refers to us both as 'father'."

"Yes, but he refers to me in the French, which I doubt many will take seriously," Poirot said, his off-hand manner not hiding his sadness.

"But I take it seriously," I replied firmly. "And so does Thomas." I stepped down the ladder, and gave Poirot another kiss, this one firm and insistent. "You are his father," I murmured once we had parted.

"And so are you," Poirot replied.

"Yes, that's why I said 'two'," I replied, teasing him. "Your little grey cells are slow tonight."

Poirot smiled and said, " _Mais oui_ , and that is because some wicked gentleman is distracting them."

"You are too tempting, Poirot." I surveyed the decorations so far, and then said, "Does this meet with your approval?"

Poirot nodded, and took my hand in one of his.

 

Later that evening, we sat before the fireplace, finishing the last bottle of wine. Ms. Lemon returned with Thomas shortly after we had completed decorating; she had taken Thomas with her for some Christmas shopping but also to let us decorate in peace. After dinner and a bath, Thomas was down for the evening, exhausted from his adventures.

"We should at least decide before Thomas goes to school," I said, returning to the previous conversation. Poirot looked at me, and I continued, "He will have to know that there are certain things he mustn't mention. I am confident he will understand; being your son, he is brilliant."

Poirot had a gentle smile on his face. "Yes, and being your son, he will dislike the subterfuge."

I murmured softly, "Our son." I felt such a swell of pride at this thought that all I could do was smile at Poirot.

" _Mon ami_ ," he whispered before leaning forward and kissing me. I gladly returned the kiss, and embraced him tightly. I expected that we would part as always for our own beds, and so I decided to take best advantage of the moment. We kissed – hot and desperate – until I could stand no more. I would have to retire soon or else I would have no need to take myself in hand for I would already be spent; however, when I pulled away, Poirot's hands rested on my shoulders and forbade me from going any further.

"Come to my bed tonight," he whispered, kissing me gently on the lips.

"You-," I stopped, wondering if I was dreaming. "Do you-?"

Poirot took pity on me, and stood up, tugging at my hand. I followed him into his bedroom, closing the door behind us. His broad hands settled on my back, pulling me close, and we kissed, each seeking to go deeper and harder. I tugged at his tie and then his waistcoat; he pushed my arms up so that he could remove my sweater-vest. We stopped kissing only when a piece of clothing required us to do so.

I wanted to ask him why – what had made him choose upon this night to trust me completely – but all I could do was recline on his soft bed and watch as he took me in his mouth. His hands held my hips down, and I watched his fingers press against my skin. His tongue flicked against a sensitive spot, and I whimpered.

"Poirot," I murmured. "Please…"

"You have teased me long enough, Hastings," he replied playfully.

"Oh god," I cried, head falling back. My eyes closed as my release overwhelmed me; one of my hands stroked through his hair while the other rested over his hand on my hip.

When I next opened my eyes, Poirot was scattering kisses across my chest. I sighed, and looked at him. He murmured my name with a strained tone, and I reached down to stroke his hardness. He bucked his hips, and moaned through his pressed lips.

"Inside?" I asked him, eager to give him whatever he wished.

"Too close," he murmured.

"Next time," I replied, pushing him onto his back. I took him into my mouth, and was satisfied to hear his loud moan. While we had to refrain from making a lot of noise, we were well situated so that my bedroom separated Poirot's from Thomas'. 

I explored as much of his skin with my hands as I could while I bobbed my head, exalting in the pleasure I was giving to my friend. When he peaked, he grabbed one of my hands and held on tightly. I rested my head on his stomach afterward, listening to the sound of our intertwined breaths.

" _Mon cher, cher_ Hastings," I heard Poirot murmur. I felt clumsy as I crawled up to lie beside him. Poirot looked curiously vulnerable as he panted next to me, and so I held him close. We drifted off to sleep, clothing scattered and bedclothes beneath us.

 

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I found Poirot watching me, still lying where he had fallen asleep the night before.

"You are the heavy sleeper, Hastings," he said, hand resting on my lower back.

"Always have been," I replied, still feeling a bit groggy. After a few minutes, I said, "I say, Poirot, shouldn't we address each other by our given names now?"

Poirot gave me curious look, and I continue to explain. "Well, I don't remember my parents addressing each other by their last names, and they weren't terribly fond of each other. Wouldn't have worked anyways because they had the same last name. Why are you smiling?"

Poirot kissed me in a most thorough way, and said, "You, Arthur."

I laughed. "You old fox, you." We smiled at each other, and I said softly, "I love you, Hercule. You know that already."

Poirot nodded, and said, "And I love you."

I heard a soft voice calling for papa _et père_ , and I said, "Time to rise."

One final kiss, and then we rose to begin our day, perhaps one of the few days in which Poirot breakfasted in his pajamas and dressing gown.

 

Epilogue:

"Monsieur Thomas! We shall be late!"

"I shall be right out, _père_!"

Poirot sighed, and looked at me with a long-suffering look in his eyes.

"He's nervous, Poirot," I said, reaching up to touch his elbow. We were in the common hallway, waiting for Thomas to come out of his room. Today was his graduation from Oxford, and no doubt he wanted to make sure that he looked perfect.

Poirot nodded, and said, "You are right, _mon ami_. I am merely nervous for him."

"As am I, old thing." I looked at him fondly, and then glanced around and seeing that we were alone, I bent down and gave him a kiss. We lingered until Thomas stepped out of his room.

"I swear," he said, shaking his head. "I cannot leave you two alone for a minute."

I gave him my best innocent look while Poirot's was smug.

He laughed, and said, "How do I look?"

Thomas Edward Hastings had grown into a handsome man. As tall and slender as I with dark features, he certainly turned heads wherever he went. His intelligence was without par on campus, and I thought perhaps he would follow in Poirot's footsteps. Alas, he wished to occupy himself with science – something to do with space travel – I ask you!

Whenever I looked at him, I saw Poirot. Of course, if you were to ask Poirot, he would have said that Thomas looked like me, slender of body and delicate features.

"Perfectly handsome," I said.

"Ah," Poirot said, raising his hand. He made a minute adjustment to Thomas' tie, and then inspected him again. " _Mais oui_ ," he said. "I approve."

Thomas smiled, and said, "Thank you, _père_ , papa."

The ceremony brought a tear to my eye, a familiar blend of pride and wistfulness. It seemed like only yesterday that I was covering a scrape on his knee with a bandage and kissing it to remove the pain. I turned to share a smile with Ms. Lemon, who had travelled down with Inspector Japp to see Thomas graduate. I was pleased that both were able to be present because they had been important in Thomas' life.

Life had been good to us for the most part, although I would have chosen a different childhood for my son than hiding in bomb shelters. When as a teenager he learned about his mother, that created a barrier between him and myself that lasted for a month – until Poirot collapsed from a fit of poor circulation. We overcame that obstacle, and Thomas even traveled to Argentina to see his mother's country. I cannot say that Poirot enjoyed that holiday, but he refused to let either of us go alone.

After the ceremony, Thomas rushed to us, and gave everyone – even Japp – an emotional embrace. I smiled at them, my family.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been inspired, in part, by our fandom's master fic, "The Real Captain Hastings." I always wondered what might have happened had Hastings become a father; of course, that would have ruined my ship.


End file.
